


normal

by betp



Series: From Tumblr [14]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 22:32:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: the english prefix,ab-, which means "away,"





	normal

“You’re the one who wanted normalcy,” says Derek. He hands Stiles a dish.

“Right.” Stiles accepts the dish. “And normal people have dishwashers.”

Derek looks flatly at him. He valiantly does not get distracted by the self-satisfied crinkle in the corners of Stiles’ eyes. Even having just been fed— _romantically_ fed, Derek would like to emphasize—there’s always something sullen in Stiles. Some low-level entitlement. Derek wants to fuck it right out of him.

He drops the silverware onto a towel and pushes Stiles, wet hands and wrists and all, away from the counter. “What—hey! _Hey_.” Stiles tries to look stern. “Derek.”

“Yes?” Derek keeps pushing.

“Derek. Hey. What’re you—” Stiles backs into the table, and Derek uses the momentum to knock him onto it. He _has_ to sit on it, just to avoid sliding off the edge and hitting the concrete floor. “Hey,” he whines. He squirms a little, minutely, like he doesn’t know how to ease the pressure of quiet arousal. “Um.” Derek leans in, and then pauses, just to let the anticipation make Stiles a little crazy. It always works. It never doesn’t work. “Oh.”

He sort of bends like a tree bough when Derek kisses him, bows and hums. He’s like wind. Sometimes he’s a warm breeze, a spring zephyr, and other times he knocks Derek’s goddamn trash can across the street. Still, this—this right here—is something Stiles is good at. Even Derek can’t throw him for enough of a loop that he can’t give as hard as he gets. Derek’s not really aware he’s clinging hard to Stiles’ thighs until Stiles breaks the kiss. Looks sort of drowsily at Derek’s mouth. For just a second, there’s nothing but their breathing. Their hearts beating. A mouse in Derek’s wall.

“So, um, how about those Mets?” Stiles asks, a little mumbly.

“Really?” asks Derek dubiously.

“What.”

“The Mets?”

“Normalcy,” stresses Stiles, grinning.

“I don’t think normal people bring up baseball in this context.”

“No?”

“Mm.”

“What do normal people do?”

Derek drags Stiles flush to the edge of the table by his belt, which he then carelessly unbuckles. Stiles lets this happen, dead weight. “I have no idea,” Derek’s admitting meanwhile; “but here’s what _I’m_ gonna do.”

“You’re gonna borrow my belt,” Stiles decides, nodding. “No, I got it,” as Derek’s unzipping his jeans, “you’re gonna _uhh_ —” He fails to get his stupid comment all the way out because Derek’s just mercilessly palmed his crotch. Derek feels Stiles’ dick go from semi to hard-on basically instantaneously. “Ho- _ho_ ly…”

Derek smiles a little, satisfied.

“Okay, yeah. Um, can I—” Stiles huffs helplessly. “Um, do you—I wanna do you.” He gulps. “Can I do you?”

Yes. Derek wants that. He shivers; he _really_ wants that. Then, he realizes something. “Oh,” he sighs dejectedly. “I’m out of lube.” Damn it. He was so focused on the goddamn chicken he forgot entirely.

Stiles sort of pokes his head forward and widens his eyes, like Derek just insulted him or something. Like he— “You—you’re _what_?” Like he’s never _forgotten_ something before—

“I’m out o—”

“I _heard_ you! This is incredulity! Derek!”

Derek rolls his shoulders. “ _You_ poured the rest of it out on the sidewalk,” he reminds him. “ _You_ did that.”

“I was doing—I was making—” He was drawing a horrid, deformed heart on the sidewalk, with their initials in it. Using the last of Derek’s bottle of lube. The rain couldn’t wash it away for a while. It was extremely stupid. Derek rolled his eyes every time he saw it.

“I know what you were doing. It doesn’t make me any less out of lube, Stiles.”

Stiles almost twitches when Derek says his name; Derek likes that about him. “That was, like, a month ago.” It was two weeks. “I’m just saying: you planned a romantic dinner and you didn’t buy lube?” He slaps the back of his hand against Derek’s chest. “What did you think was gonna _happen_ after?”

“Thought we’d read the bible and pray a while,” Derek tells him.

“Shut up, Father Asshole,” replies Stiles. “Don’t you have lotion? You _do_ , you have fancy lotion. We can do lotion.”

“Nope,” says Derek flatly.

Stiles does the thing again, only even more offended. “ _Dude_!”

“No.”

“You can’t relax your _butthole rules_ even in the event of an _emergency_?”

Absolutely not, and _especially_ not when Stiles calls them that.

"Oh, my _god_.” Stiles drops his head back. Then he lifts it back up, thoughtful. Industrious. “You can fuck _me_ with lotion,” he tries. Derek squints. “ _I_ don’t care _what_ you fuck me with,” Stiles goes on earnestly. “Hair conditioner. Um, olive oil. Dish soap.”

“Safe,” Derek nods.

“Flour,” says Stiles.

“That’ll definitely work.”

“Sewage.”

Derek grimaces.

“Whatever you want, as long as you put it _in_ m—

"Stop talking.”

Stiles leans back on his palms, looking smug. Derek has _no idea_ why. He looks so damn _pleased_ with himself, and it pisses Derek off. He feels flushed with anger. The next thing he knows, they’re making out, clawing blunt-fingered at each other’s clothed backs. Stiles groans, hungrily, lets Derek put his tongue in his mouth.

This was what kept Derek around, when they first started messing around with each other. Sure, Stiles is fun to argue with and has a weak chin and sexy hands. And yeah, Stiles would literally murder somebody with his bare hands to protect his small group of favorites. But most of all, he does something to Derek nobody else does, and Derek can’t even explain it. Doesn’t even know what it _is_. He knows it when he sees it, and this is it. Stiles makes him peak, emotionally, and then he drops down the other side and crash lands in Stiles’ arms. It’s absurd, and Derek’s addicted to it. He never seems to get used to it, either. They break apart some ten minutes later, entirely because they need to breathe. “Uh,” Stiles says when he stops basically panting. “Oh. Babe. We can just go out and buy lube.” Derek rubs the back of his hand on his chin, looks warily at the door. That would involve separating from Stiles, physically speaking. Stiles adds, hopefully, “And we can get Dr Pepper.” Absently finger-combs Derek’s hair off his forehead.

Derek rolls his eyes. This idiot and his Dr Pepper. Then he calculates. They could go out and get lube, then come back, and Derek could get laid. Or: they could stay _in_ and Derek could get laid, and Stiles will probably be very sore. As in, significantly more sore than he has to be. Derek wins in either scenario, if he’s honest. He looks back at Stiles, impatient. Decide, asshole.

“What am I supposed to do about this, though,” Stiles wonders, low, looking distractedly down at his own lap. Derek gropes him again, to force a noise out of him, make him dig a heel into the back of Derek’s leg.

“Think deep thoughts or something,” Derek suggests, detouring the groping to Stiles’ ass.

“Yeah, go back to plan A,” says Stiles, watching Derek’s forearms contentedly. “Bring me that bible.”

“That was a bluff. I don’t have a bible.”

“Heathen!” Stiles says.

“It’s poorly written.”

“Blasphemer!” Somehow he’s making these absurd play-accusations sound impossibly erotic. Maybe Derek just likes his voice. He nods a little condescendingly. Then he leans in, nips at Stiles’ lip. Stiles follows him a couple inches when he leans back again. “We, um, we never solved the whole… lube conflict.” He gestures, meaningless. It looks like he’s trying to sign something about fucking the ocean. “You know. To screw or not to screw.”

Derek leans one palm on the table beside Stiles’ hip. “Do you _want_ to screw?” He makes sure to pack as much disdain as he possibly can in that word. It’s not enough.

“Literally always,” Stiles reminds him, head tilted. “Do _you_?”

Yes. Derek squints. “Why are we still talking about this? We already established this. This can’t be normal.”

“You know something,” says Stiles a little ruefully. “I don’t think we _are_ normal.”

“Entirely possible,” Derek replies. “I am a wolf,” he adds. “And you're… You know. _You_.” Whatever he is.

“Wow.” Stiles smirks. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment? Okay?” He points. “For my own peace of mind.” Then he pauses, watching Derek with a melty, fond expression, like he’s never been this happy, like he’s sinking into an ocean of honeyed affection. Then he tacks on, “Shithead.” It doesn’t detract from the soupy bliss.

Derek rolls his eyes, takes his hands off Stiles’ skinny knees. “Go get your stupid lotion.”

“So, that’s a yay-lotion vote, or…?”

No, Derek wants him to moisturize. _God_ , what an idiot. “It’s a vote for me _screwing_ you,” Derek says at him, “and _then_ we’ll go out and get lube.”

“Oh, man,” says Stiles, dropping excitedly onto his feet, following Derek down the hall. “Sex marathon! I’m gonna sex marathon you! Babe!” Derek looks at him. There’s nothing to look at. Just Stiles, looking enthused. “Sex marathon!” he says again.

“I heard you the first four times,” Derek replies. “You’re making me want to nix the whole sex marathon thing.”

“Am not.” Stiles crowds him. When Derek crowds Stiles, they usually end up crammed against a wall. When Stiles crowds Derek, Derek doesn’t really move. “I’m _pretty_ sure I can tell the difference between you, and you when you wanna fuck me.”

Derek really doesn’t want to make out in the hall, especially after such a stupid conversation, but he does it anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was tagged: **#in which everyone's butts are ready for butt stuff always** and i think that's an apt representation of 99.9% of my fic


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